Fifty grand. Enough to fix the boats. Enough to buy heat for the elders for a decade.
And it’s a lie. Matilde Duval don't have a beloved bone in her desiccated body. She wants the girl back so she can finish whatever ritual she started at dinner.
“We keep our mouths shut,”I’d told them, using the Alpha tone that vibrates the sternum of anyone standing too close.“Nobody talks. Nobody claims that money. She ain't here.”
They listened, but I could smell the greed and the fear on them. It smelled like sour milk.
I stomp up the wooden stairs to the cabin. The humidity is hovering near one hundred percent. My shirt is stuck to my back, and the scar on my neck is itching—a deep, phantom burn that warns me magic is active nearby.
I unlock the heavy padlock on the door.
Miranda is sitting exactly where I left her, on the bed, her injured leg propped up. She’s holding the pipe wrench in her lap like a security blanket.
She looks up when I enter. Her face is pale, stripped of makeup, leaving her looking sharp and exhausted. Those violet eyes track me, calculating, assessing the threat level.
I drop the canvas bag on the table. The thud shakes the floorboards.
"You went shopping," she says. Her voice is dry, flat. "Did you pick up a hostage negotiation manual while you were out?"
I ignore the sarcasm. I’m too wired. The Wolf is pacing inside my ribcage, agitated by the scent of the Pack and her.
I cross the room in two strides, invading her personal space. I need to know. I need to be sure before I risk my Pack for this creature.
"Stand up," I command.
"I can't," she snaps. "My ankle is injured. My joint?—"
I grab her upper arms and haul her up. She gasps, dropping the wrench with a heavy clang. She puts her weight on her good leg, her hands gripping my biceps to steady herself. Her fingers are small, cold.
I lean in, burying my face in the curve of her neck.
She stiffens, her breath hitching, but she doesn't pull away.
I inhale.
It’s a mess. A sensory disaster.
There’s the smell of the bayou—mud and algae. There’s the smell of the antique clock oil she must use, a sharp scent of brass and solvent. And under that... the Rot. The Duval stench. It’s faint, fading like old perfume, but it’s there. It smells like dried lilies and funeral parlors.
"You reek of them," I growl against her skin. The vibration of my voice makes her shiver.
I pull back, staring down into those unnatural eyes. "Matilde says you're her niece. She says you're family. You smell like the Crypt. Tell me why I shouldn't throw you back to them. Tell me you ain't a spy sent to mark my den."
"I am not a spy!" she shouts, shoving at my chest. It’s like shoving a brick wall, but I admire the effort. "I told you, I didn't know they were vampires until they tried to eat me! I thought they were just eccentric rich people with a vitamin D deficiency!"
"Liar," I spit. "You carry their blood. You carry their stink."
"I can't help my genetics," she argues, her voice rising. "But I am not one of them. Look at me! Do I look like I have superpowers? I can barely walk."
"They heal fast," I counter. "Maybe you're just playing the long game. Waiting for me to lower my guard so you can open the door for the rest of the coven."
She stares at me, her chest heaving. I can hear her heart. It’s beating fast—thump-thump-thump—a frantic, erratic rhythm.
Vampire hearts beat slow. Once every few seconds. Like a reptile waiting to strike.
Hers is racing.
"You want proof?" she asks, her voice trembling with anger.
